The world returned to Willow in fragments.
First came the sound. A high, regular beep pierced the fog in her skull, steady and insistent, impossible to ignore. Each note seemed to pull at her, urging her upward. For a long moment she clung to the darkness, but the machine kept calling her back.
Then came the smell.
Sterile and sharp, almost metallic. Antiseptic bit at the back of her throat with every shallow breath. It mingled with something fainter, plastic tubing, latex gloves, disinfected linen. She recognized it instinctively, though she had never wanted to. The smell of a hospital.
Next came sensation.
Her right arm felt heavy and absent, wrapped in something solid and unforgiving. She tried to move it and failed. Beneath the plaster, her skin itched faintly. The crown of her head throbbed beneath a tight, scratchy bandage. Every pulse of her heart sent a dull ache through her temples, a reminder that something inside her skull was bruised and unsettled. Lower down, a deeper soreness pulsed along her leg.
Her eyelids fluttered.
The light above her was white and cold, glaring against the fragile slits of her vision. She winced and let her eyes close again, retreating from the brightness.
Voices reached her through the haze.
"She's very lucky," a man said. His voice was calm and practiced, the kind that carried reassurance through repetition. "The gash on her forehead required twelve stitches. There will likely be minimal scarring. The concussion is moderate, but stable. The arm fracture is clean, and there was a laceration on her leg that has been closed. There is no internal bleeding and no neurological deficits that we can see. She should wake fully very soon. You're healing well. For now, just rest."
Another voice answered, quieter, tight with contained tension.
"That's good. Thank you, doctor."
She knew that voice.
Recognition came instantly, deeper than pain or fear. Even dulled by medication and exhaustion, she would have known it anywhere.
Miles.
Relief washed through her, weak but genuine. He was here. He had survived the crash, even though the impact had come from her side. The thought loosened something tight in her chest, soothing her more than the painkillers dripping through the IV in her arm.
She wanted to open her eyes, to see him, to reassure herself that the familiar voice belonged to the man she loved. She tried to speak, but her mouth felt dry, her tongue thick and uncooperative. Her lips barely parted.
A low sound escaped her instead.
Movement followed immediately.
A chair scraped against the linoleum floor. Footsteps approached the bed.
"She moved," Miles said quickly, urgency breaking through his control. "Doctor, she's waking up."
"That's normal," the doctor replied calmly. "She's surfacing. Give her a moment. Don't crowd her."
Willow forced her eyes open again. This time they stayed open, though the effort sent a wave of dizziness through her.
The ceiling swam into focus, then the fluorescent light, then the shape standing beside the bed.
Miles.
He looked terrible.
His dark hair was mussed, as if he had been dragging restless hands through it for hours. Shadows ringed his eyes, bruised crescents of exhaustion. His jaw was tight, his lips pressed thin. He was not looking at her yet, his attention fixed on the doctor instead, as though measuring every word.
Her heart ached at the sight.
He had been worrying. He had sat vigil by her bed, waiting, fearing. She had put those lines there.
She wanted to reach for him, but her plastered arm refused to move, and the IV tugged sharply at her other wrist. Instead, she blinked slowly, soft tears slipping from the corners of her eyes.
Miles's gaze flicked to her at last. Their eyes met.
"You're awake," he said, voice hoarse.
It was not the rush of relief she had expected. No laugh. No exhale of joy. Just three quiet words, flat, as though he were noting a fact rather than a miracle.
Her lips parted, but nothing came. Her throat felt like sandpaper.
The doctor stepped closer, checking her pupils with a small flashlight. "Can you hear me?" he asked.
She gave the smallest nod.
"Good. Do you know where you are?"
She drew in a breath that scraped at her lungs. "Hos…pital."
"That's right. Do you remember what happened?"
Her mind offered her broken flashes. Headlights too close. Rain streaking across glass. A sharp sound that stole her breath. Her body tensed reflexively.
"Accident," she whispered.
"Very good," the doctor said gently. "You've been unconscious for a few days, but everything looks stable. Just rest."
She nodded again.
The doctor murmured something to a nurse, adjusted the monitor, and then left the room. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing them into a quieter space.
Silence settled.
Miles remained where he was, standing beside the bed but not touching her. His arms crossed loosely over his chest, posture controlled, contained. He looked like a man holding himself together through discipline rather than ease.
She studied him through the haze, affection warming her chest.
He was trying to be strong. That was who he was. Steady. Reliable. The man who did not fall apart even when everything else did.
It was why she had loved him. Why she had said yes.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
His head lifted sharply. "Don't," he said immediately. "Don't apologize."
She managed a faint smile. "I scared you."
"You scared everyone," he replied quietly. "Just rest."
She obeyed, letting her eyes close again. The beeping of the monitor steadied, a mechanical reassurance that something inside her was still working.
Time passed like that, suspended and gentle.
A faint image surfaced uninvited. Light reflecting off glass. A woman's laugh with no face attached to it. The scent of something floral, expensive, unfamiliar.
The fragments slipped away before she could grasp them.
Then there was a knock at the door.
Miles straightened instinctively, uncrossing his arms. "Yes?"
The door opened.
Two people stepped inside.
Willow recognized the man immediately, even before her eyes fully adjusted. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed with careless precision, he moved like he owned whatever space he entered, hospital rooms included.
Of course it was Zane.
Miles's constant. The friend who had been there long before her and never let her forget it.
He stopped just inside the doorway, scanning the room with a quick, assessing glance. His gaze landed on Willow, sharp and unfiltered, the faint curl of sarcasm already forming at the corner of his mouth.
"Well," Zane said, folding his arms loosely. "You look better than the car."
Willow closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again. Even now, even like this, irritation flared on instinct.
"Zane," she murmured.
"Good," he replied. "Still present. That's a promising sign."
Behind him stood Christy.
She hovered a step back, her presence softer, more careful. Her hair was pulled back simply, her coat damp at the hem from the rain. When their eyes met, genuine relief crossed her face.
"Oh," Christy said quietly. "You're awake. Thank God."
Miles shot Zane a warning look. "Zane."
"What?" Zane said mildly. "Doctor said she's lucky. I'm agreeing."
Willow shifted slightly, the movement sending a dull ache through her arm. "You always did have a way with concern."
A corner of his mouth lifted. "And you always did wake up swinging."
Christy stepped closer to the bed, careful not to crowd her. "We just wanted to see you," she said gently. "Make sure you were okay."
Zane nodded once. "Yeah. You kind of wrecked everyone's week."
Miles exhaled sharply.
Zane lifted his hands in mock surrender. "Fine. I'll behave." His gaze lingered on Willow for a moment longer, something unreadable flickering beneath the sarcasm. "Seriously, though. I'm glad you're awake."
The room felt different now. Tighter. Less private.
Willow became aware of how many people were standing over her, how little space was left that belonged only to her and Miles. The sense of safety she had been holding onto thinned, not broken but stretched.
Miles stayed at her side, solid and familiar. She focused on that, on the warmth of his presence, on the relief she still trusted.
Whatever discomfort Zane brought with him could wait.
For now.